


White Knight

by lucybun



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-02
Updated: 2011-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 08:05:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucybun/pseuds/lucybun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock goes too far and Lestrade reaches his limit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White Knight

**Author's Note:**

> Not betad or brit-picked. Also, if you don't want a story where Sherlock is an incredible ass, then don't read on.

This had been a bad idea. Everyone at the table knew it, but all except one were willing to keep up appearances and at least attempt to have a pleasant evening meal. There hadn't been a case in over 10 days, and Sherlock was in rare form. John had been tempted to call off the whole thing, but had hoped that getting out of the flat might actually help relieve his lover's funk. He was quickly realizing the massive mistake he'd made.

"Why are we here again? This place is utterly repulsive. Every waiter here is being paid third-world wages, they're using stock from a tin, and the sous chef hasn't washed his hands for at least three hours."

"Sherlock, please. This is a perfectly fine restaurant, and we're all going to sit here and attempt to have a pleasant meal."

"Thank you, John," Mycroft injected.

"Oh, shut up, Mycroft. I know this was your idea. This has your chubby little fingerprints all over it," Sherlock retorted.

Greg stiffened in his chair at that opening salvo. The digs were inevitable whenever Sherlock and Mycroft were in the same room, but even Greg hadn't expected them to start this soon. Sherlock must be in an exceptionally tetchy mood tonight, and both John and Greg went on high alert.

"Sherlock! Please don't start. Please, just this once, don't start this. And, actually, this was my idea. Look, we're here with friends and some lovely food. Just try to enjoy this, please."

"You're here with your friends, John. I'm here with my big brother and his bobby." Everyone heard and understood the inflection he'd placed on "big."

"Fine then. Fine. We'll just leave then. Just put on your jacket and we'll leave." Starting to rise, John began apologizing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry you two. I don't know why I thought this would work. I suppose I am an idiot. Sorry. Just sorry. " Seeing Sherlock not moving to rise further frayed John's temper. "I said let's go, Sherlock. Get up, and we'll go. No reason to ruin Greg's and Mycroft's night, too."

"Oh sit down, John. No need to be so dramatic. I promise I'll be good. Just ignore me. I'll sit quietly and enjoy my ...well, I'll eat my meal and listen to you three make small talk, hmm? I'm perfectly capable of that. "

"Then why...you know what, just forget it." John said as he sat back down.

Looking up at the men across him, John noticed Mycroft wore his usual placid mask. Greg, however, was another story. There were lines of tension around his eyes and mouth, and he was gripping his fork so hard his knuckles were white. John thought again about suggesting they leave, but decided to give it one more try. The thing was, he liked Gregory Lestrade and he even got along fine with Mycroft. And, ridiculous as it was, he loved Sherlock enough to care about what kind of relationship he had with his brother. He wasn't stupid enough to hope the two would ever be close, but he hated the open animosity Sherlock displayed towards his brother. His instincts told him that it bothered Mycroft far more than he would ever let on, too. The love for his brother was there in Mycroft's constant concern, he just wished Sherlock would see it, wouldn't resent him so. It was his naively hopeful wish for some sort of detente between the two that had led him to suggest this dinner.

Sitting in silence for awhile, everyone seemed to finally relax a bit. Soon enough, their first course was taken away and their main course arrived. John chatted a bit about some of his clinic cases, and he and Mycroft even discussed some of the veteran support programs that the government were bandying about in the press. Greg didn't really join in, but he did seem to lose some of the tension stringing through his body and his face was no longer red as a beet. Sherlock actually sat quietly as promised, head down, pushing his food around his plate.

John was starting to think they might all actually survive this encounter until the waiter came to inquire about dessert. John didn't want to press his luck and thought extending the meal any longer was ill-advised. Greg seemed to agree and also refused. Mycroft too indicated his refusal, causing Sherlock to scoff, not quite under his breath. As the waiter left the table to retrieve the cheque, Greg asked quietly, too quietly, "What was that, Sherlock?"

"Hmmm? Oh, nothing. Just surprised I suppose. Not used to seeing Mycroft refuse sweets. Diet going well? Still maintaining that healthy BMI?"

John should have known Sherlock wouldn't last, but he still gazed in disbelief at the sheer ignorance, the sheer hatefulness, the man was capable of displaying.

Mycroft just gave his normal unaffected half-smile, but Greg was practically vibrating in his seat. How could Sherlock not notice this? The man might be bloody brilliant, but he really had an appalling inability to understand emotional cues. John hadn't ever seen it in the policeman before, but he knew just by looking at Greg's face that the man was beyond furious. He'd seen that look more than once in the army, that look men got right before they broke someone else's jaw. And, though part of him knew Sherlock sort of deserved it, he still didn't want to see his lover harmed.

"Greg. Look, we're leaving, aren't we, Sherlock?" John quickly pulled out his wallet, intending to just leave all the cash he had and hope it covered at least half the cost of their share of the bill.

"Oh, put your money away, John. Mycroft can pay for this. I imagine he has a rather generous meal allowance."

"Oh, Sherlock," John moaned, cringing at what he knew was coming next.

Apparently, Mycroft saw it coming, too. He placed a hand on Lestrade's bicep and softly said, "Now, Gregory...."

"Don't. Don't Gregory me." Greg leaned forward, gaze locking onto Sherlock. "Now you listen to me you fucking little bastard, " Gregory rumbled. "This is the last, and I do mean the absolute last fucking time you are going to open your sodding gob and say one more word about this man's weight... or anything else for that matter. I'm giving you one, and I mean one warning here, you. One more of your little jabs and I promise you'll be counting your lucky stars you've always got a doctor near. You hear me? You may be the smartest thing on two legs, but I'll cut them right out from under you. I'll wipe the goddamned floor with you, Sherlock Holmes."

At this Greg rose and put his hand under Mycroft's arm to lift the visibly dazed man out of his seat. Before walking away, Greg turned back to say, "And we're not paying for the fucking meal. If you can't cover it then you can just scrub some sodding dishes. Serve you right. Goodnight, John."

 

"Um. Yes. Yes. Goodnight...uh, to you both. Um, take care? I...."

 

Mycroft took pity on the man and threw a "Goodnight to you,too, John," over his shoulder as Gregory frog-marched him out of the restaurant.

John turned to look at Sherlock and wished he had a camera. For once in what was probably the man's entire life, he looked completely gobsmacked. John thought he might actually be speechless.

"You know you deserved every bit of that, don't you? And I hope to God you've got a card that isn't Mycroft's on you."

____________________

Outside, Greg and Mycroft stood in the chilly breeze on the pavement waiting for the car to arrive. They'd left so abruptly Mycroft hadn't had time to send for the driver.

Still fuming, Greg was pacing back and forth like a caged tiger, while Mycroft just stared at him in bemused disbelief.

The car finally arrived, and Greg jerked open the door for Mycroft before the driver had a chance. Mycroft slid in and Greg followed. Not quite knowing what to say, Mycroft simply sat in silence, hoping some time and distance would ease the other man's temper. He'd never seen Gregory like this, and he honestly didn't know what to do.

About five minutes later Greg turned to him, "I know you're upset about this. I didn't mean to just drag you out of there. I'm sorry, I truly am. I know how he is, and I let him get to me. I...I...just sorry."

"I'm not upset with you, Gregory."

"Yes you are, I can see it. You've gone all frozen mask on me. I know what that means."

"Have I?" he asked, actually lifting his fingers up to touch at his face. " I didn't mean to." Shaking his head a bit, like someone waking from a vivid dream, Mycroft continued, "Nevertheless, perhaps I should clarify. I am troubled that Sherlock provoked you to this, I am however not upset with you for your reaction. In fact, I think I might be quite the opposite of upset. I don't know that anyone has ever done that before, Gregory."

 

"What? Reamed your brother out? I doubt that. I imagine it's happened fuckloads, maybe daily."

"No, no. That's not what I meant. I meant that I don't believe anyone has ever stood up for me like that before. No one has ever 'defended my honor' so to speak. I...well, I...let's just say I am grateful. I am most pleased and most grateful, Gregory." With that, Mycroft lifted his hand to Greg's face, cupping his cheek and rubbing his thumb across the cheekbone.

Feeling the tightness in his gut beginning to uncoil a little, Greg leaned into the touch. "You're welcome. No one should talk to you like that. Especially him. He...I...Jesus, he just makes me so fucking mad, and I just love you so fucking much." It was not exactly what he'd been expecting to come out of his mouth. But seeing the reaction on Mycroft's face, he would have planned it if he could.

Mycroft was smiling. His real smile. His genuine, happy to his bones, and completely surprised by the happiness grin. Greg ached at that tinge of surprise, but reveled in the happy.

"You do, don't you? You really do. My knight in shining armor," Mycroft issued in adoring wonder.

"Did you doubt it?"

"No, not really. I never doubt you. But it is good to have my belief in you reinforced occasionally. I love you, too, Gregory Lestrade."

"Yeah?" Greg huffed, a hint of mirth finally tinting his face.

"Yes. Yes I do. Very much. And might I make a suggestion?"

"Mmhmm. Anything you want."

Savoring the squeeze in his chest and parts a bit further down caused by those three words, Mycroft offered, "I suggest that when we get home, we go to our kitchen, find that pint of chocolate ice cream you keep hidden in back of the freezer, take it upstairs, and have our dessert."

Greg blinked in surprise, and, missing the point somewhat, asked, "You're going to eat ice cream?"

"Well, no. I'm not actually. But you are."

"Oh. Ohhhh," understanding finally dawning. "Well, you can't expect me to eat it all by myself, Mycroft. I think you can bend your rules just this once and maybe share," Greg replied, finally leaning in for a lingering kiss.

As they pulled up to their home, he leaned back to take in Mycroft's slightly flushed face and swollen lips.

"Well," Mycroft conceded as they exited the car, "maybe just a nibble."

Laughing, Greg placed his hand on the small of the other man's back and ushered him into their home, greatly looking forward to his late-night snack.


End file.
